The Basque Rain


This must be
The wettest city in Spain;
And if it's not,
It's the greyest;
Post-industrial decay.
I like the rain,
But it's like
It wasn't meant to be this way.

Slaves washing our sins away,
With water from the river
Running down into the drains.
The same old cycle:
Infinite pain,
And he doesn't acknowledge as I pass,
He just aims the opposite way.

And later,
As I approach,
He's under the bridge,
Beginning to shiver,
And,
As I listen,
The Basque Rain
Crashes down into the river.

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